Toadymort
by ThunderClouds7
Summary: One dark and stormy night, Voldemort accidentally steps on an amphibian that will change his life forever. He vows to keep it safe and destroy the world for it. But the toad's previous owner is out to find it and he will stop at nothing to rescue his poor, lost pet. Yes, this is totally a Voldemort/Trevor fic. It's random and overly dramatic. All I can say is, enjoy.
1. Voldy Finds Love

One: Finding Love

It was a dark and stormy night. Voldemort swept across the grassy hill, his cape billowing out behind him like waves of darkness. He was busy contemplating the many ways he could fully and brutally eradicate the tick in his hair that was Harry Potter. He had come up with many ideas already, but none seemed quite right. They weren't perfect or flawless. And they lacked a certain something.

The wind swept through the tall grass, making it whip and slash around him frantically. Above the Dark Lord, rain lashed the air and lightning split the night. Thunder rumbled ominously as the waves crashed against the jagged cliffs. Voldemort breathed deeply, the smell of wet decay in his nostrils, and ran one long, thin hand over his head. The skin was smooth and faintly damp beneath his fingers. Voldemort's bare feet swished through the swaying grass, picking up drops of cool dew. The mud squished beneath his toes feet and he paused to pick a pebble out from between his toes. He took another step forward and something that wasn't mud squished beneath him with a sickening crunch. Voldemort paused and looked down; lifting his foot to see what he had stepped on.

It was a greenish brown toad. One of its hind-legs was crushed and blood speckled the ground where the bone had broken the skin. The toad let out one mournful croak before falling silent, its eyes blinking slowly, barely moving.

Something stirred within Voldemort's cold dead heart. Something he could not identify. He felt a pang of sympathy for the poor creature. It was alone, like he was. It was hurt, like he was. It was also slimy and cold, like he was.

Voldemort bent down in one dramatic movement and carefully laid a pale finger on the quivering amphibian's back. It let out a feeble croak. Voldemort instantly withdrew his finger. He had to end this poor creature's suffering somehow! The lord of evil drew his wand and pointed it at the frog. Anyone watching would have suspected to see a flash of green light. Instead, Voldemort swished and flicked his wand, muttering something under his breath. The beautiful, injured frog rose smoothly into the air.

Now to get his precious somewhere safe. Voldemort stood up, taking great care not to jostle his cargo, and took off across the grassy hill. He didn't dare Apparating for fear that it would hurt the frog even more than it already was. Luckily there was a small fisherman's house down at the base of the hill. Voldemort would brutally kill the man and steal his boat. It was the only way to save the amphibian. He could see the house; it was barely a hundred meters away and there was a light burning in one of the windows.

Voldemort paused before the door and carefully lowered the frog so it was sitting in an empty flowerpot. He needed his wand and he didn't want to risk having the frog get hurt. With a flourish, Voldemort made the door open fly open and crash against the way. He began to sweep inside…

Only to get hit in the face by the rebounding wood. Inside the dirty hovel, someone snickered. Voldemort's face flared bright red; they would pay for that.

Voldemort kicked the door open and strode inside, his robes flaring out behind him in an awe-inspiring way. The snickers quickly turned to frightened gasps. Voldemort allowed a small smile to creep across his cold face; they were right to tremble in fear before him.

There were three people inside the house. A man with weather beaten skin and a mangled hat on his head; the fisherman. A short woman with dirty blonde hair and pallid looking skin; the fisherman's wife. And a young boy of seven who looked so scared that Voldemort thought he might faint; the fisherman's son. None of them would survive the night.

"Aveda Kedavra!"

The house lit up with brilliant flashes of green light. Screams rent the air and made Voldemort smile. He left the hovel as quickly as he had entered it and picked up the flower pot with his beautiful frog in it. The dark wizard followed a narrow dirt track down to the water's edge where a dingy looking boat was waiting. The paint was peeling and the sail was tattered, but Voldemort supposed that it would do. He carefully placed the pot beneath a bench and made the sailboat begin to move with a wave of his wand.

He glanced down lovingly at the clay pot that he could just barely see poking out from beneath the wooden bench. His acute hearing could pick up the frog's distressed wheezing. "Hold on, my precious," he whispered to the animal. "We'll be back soon and I will make you better."

The portly boy looked high and low for his missing pet. He checked flower pots and beneath the bushes and up in the trees; he even stuck his head in a gnome hole. He received a nasty bite on the nose for that trick. But his pet was nowhere to be found. The boy couldn't even remember the last time he'd seen it. They'd been having a picnic up on some high hill top, he knew that, and he'd brought his pet with him, but after that the boy couldn't remember. Was it possible he'd left the animal back there by accident? The boy shuddered at the thought; his pet wouldn't last long in the storm that was raging outside.

The hilltop wasn't far. Maybe he could nip out, go take a look, and be back before his grandmother ever noticed that he was gone. The boy quickly grabbed his coat, a hat, and a pair of rain boots. He snuck one last look back into the kitchen where his grandmother was chatting away with some other old lady, then dashed outside into the rain.

The boy grimaced and burrowed deeper into the collar of his coat. He had to find his pet before it drowned! The boy raced down dirt road that was quickly turning to mud that sucked at his boot and threatened to pull him to the ground. He tripped and nearly tumbled into a menacing pool of mud, but he managed to right himself at the last second and continue on his way. It took him an hour to reach the hilltop where they had taken lunch that afternoon. And so the boy began his search.

He looked everywhere, parting the grass and picking up rocks. He couldn't spot his missing pet anywhere. Had it somehow hopped off the cliff and was now lying in smithereens on the rocks? The boy dropped to his hands and knees and crawled over to the edge of the hill. He peered down at the jagged rocks below, his mind filled with gruesome images of what had happened to his precious pet. Finally, he had to accept defeat. He leaned back on his feet and raised his face to the sky, his face a picture of distress. "Trevor!" he wailed. "Where are you?"

**Enia (knee-uh): Yes, you are totally allowed to ask 'what the hell'. This is just some random idea I came up with awhile back during P.E. while I was talking to my friend Onyx. I only recently finished this chapter 'cause I got bored. We'd been looking at Schnoogle (I think that's what it's called) the other day and we saw Voldemort/Trevor under the pairing list. It's supposed to be very overdramatic. Expect randomness and sporadic updates. Also, I have no idea if I spelled some of the words right 'cause I'm too lazy to go look it up, so if I did, please let me know and I'll change it!**

**Please leave a review! Bye for now!**


	2. The Death Eaters' Reactions

The Death Eaters' Reaction

The boat ride across the rough bay was quick enough, but Voldemort still worried that it was going to be too long. The beautiful amphibian in the flower pot was slowly starting to lose its lush brown and green speckled color. Its breathing was disturbingly shallow and it croaked weakly with each exhale. Voldemort had to get back quickly and find a healer for his precious toad because the Dark Lord could not heal it himself.

Finally, the boat bumped up against a wooden dock. Voldemort snatched up the clay pot and leapt ashore without tying off. The boat could drift out to sea for all he cared. The village he stood in could be described as quaint. It was a tiny fishing village with old fashioned houses bearing stark sighs. Old, rust bucket cars puttered along the cobblestones and there were small wares stalls set up on every corner, closed against the light rain that fell.

Voldemort noticed none of it. All he cared about was finding an apothecary to heal his precious. Shutters slammed as he swept down the wet streets and the few pedestrians out and about quickly darted into a building when they saw him. Their fear made the Dark Lord feel a little better. Until he remembered the dying toad in his arms and he cursed himself for forgetting its peril.

Finally, Voldemort spotted the apothecary. Its battered wood sigh was faded and indistinct. Stands of plants stood outside the shop and even more were on display in the windows. A small sign on the door read 'CLOSED'. Voldemort used his wand to blast it open.

Something small and furry leapt at his head as Voldemort entered the cramped shop, nearly causing him to drop his flower pot. Cursing, Voldemort whipped his wand around. It settled on a small black cat atop a pile of boxes. Its back was arched and it was hissing at him. "Aveda Kedavra!"

A jet of green light shot from the tip of his wand and the cat toppled from its perch.

"OI!" bellowed a voice from the second floor of the building. "DID SOMEONE JUST USE A BLOODY UNFORGIVABLE CURSE IN _MY_ SHOP?"

A small, bent old woman came tottering down the stairs, cane thumping on each step. She spotted Voldemort instantly. She eyed him sharply, can tapping threateningly. "Young man, what in God's name are you doing?"

Voldemort calmly pointed his wand at her. He had no qualms about killing a defenseless lady, but he needed her to heal his toad. "Get down here," he ordered coldly.

The apothecary stayed put. "What did you do to my Buttercup?"

"Oh, the cat?" Voldemort sneered. "What do you think I did to the bloody thing? I killed it. Now get down here."

"Why?"

"I've got a patient for you."

The apothecary looked skeptical. "Really."

Not lowering his wand, Voldemort stepped forward and set the flower pot on a cluttered desk. "Come take a look."

Unable to resist her curiosity, the old woman came down the stairs and over to the desk. Reluctantly, Voldemort stepped back to allow her access. She peered into the pot and looked back at the Dark Lord with an expression of skeptical surprise. "It's a toad."

"Yes."

"What's wrong with it?"

"I don't know. That's your job."

The apothecary turned back to her patient and carefully pulled the toad out, laying down a red cloth to place it on. She took a pair of spectacles with round, thick lenses out of her pocket and set them on her nose. "Why do you care?"

Voldemort blinked. "What?"

"Why do you care about the toad?"

"Can you fix it?" Voldemort asked instead of answering.

"I can."

"Do it."

Voldemort waited for a tense half an hour. The apothecary shooed him out of her shop, saying she couldn't work with him breathing down her neck, and so he was left waiting out in the rain. Finally, though, the old woman opened the door of her shop to him. He followed her inside, glad to be out of the rain. "I've done all I can," the apothecary began and Voldemort felt fear's cold hand touch his heart, worried his toad had died, but her next words alienated his fears. "I do believe he shall live. He had a broken leg and several smashed ribs, almost like someone had stepped on him…"

Voldemort looked at the wall innocently.

"But I don't think there's any internal bleeding. Now about payment…"

Voldemor picked up his toad and put it back in the pot. Then he exited the shop. He left the apothecary alive; that was payment enough.

* * *

Voldemort decided it was safte to Apparate with his toad. One moment he was standing on the wet cobblestone road and the next he was in the middle of Malfoy's well-manicured lawn, crushing the man's precious peonies. The toad croaked indignantly. Voldemort made comforting noises at it.

"Welcome to your new home," he whispered as he threw the double doors open. His toad really needed a name.

His Death Eaters were waiting for him in the dining room. They jumped to their feet when he strode in, his cloak billowing impressively behind him. "There you are," that worm Lucius Malfoy sighed. "We've been wondered where you'd gotten…" he spotted the strange pot in Voldemort's hands, "…to. What's that?"

Voldemort set the pot on the polished table and tipped it over, quietly urging the toad out. It hopped uncertainly into the light. The Death Eaters stared at it in shock. One of them sniggered. Voldemort scowled and made note that it was Avery. That hog. Voldemort would punish him later.

"Is that…a toad?" Malfoy asked stupidly.

"Yes, you idiot," Voldemort snapped.

"W-why?"

"Why not?" the Dark Lord growled. Malfoy quickly shrugged submissively and lowered his eyes.

"Isn't that Longbottom's toad, my lord?" asked Severus, boredom evident in his voice. The wizard was leaning back in his chair, feet up on the table; a fact that was deeply aggravating Malfoy.

"No," Voldemort said pensively. "It's mine."

Severus obviously thought his master was being odd. "Whatever you say, my lord."

"Why's it wearing those bandages?" asked a Death Eater whose name Voldemort had never bothered to learn. He had a country twang that Voldemort found extremely grating. Indeed, his toad was covered in crisp white bandages.

"Because he got hurt."

"How?"

Voldemort hesitated, his slitted eyes darting around the assembled Death Eaters. Several wore badly hidden smiles. "Because I stepped on him," he said quickly.

"So you had him fixed?" Crouch Jr. sneered, his tongue flicking out.

Voldemort snarled at the young Death Eater. "You wouldn't understand."

Crouch raised an eyebrow. "Are you going soft, Voldy?"

Something in Voldemort's eye twitched. "Shut it!" he roared. The whole room fell silent. Crouch looked suitably cowed and the toad trembled. Voldemort scooped it up and began stroking its back protectively. "Why's it matter if I have a bloody toad? Everyone has pets. And besides, _you_ idiots don't get to question me. You just have to do everything I say."

"And what are you saying now, my lord?" Severus asked, still sounding bored.

"I'm saying that this toad is here to stay and none of you are to touch it, or say anything bad about it. Or else I will punish you. Severely. Got it?"

Every Death Eater quickly nodded. "It needs a name," declared Bellatrix. "What will you call it, my lord?" She sounded eager to please.

Voldemort grinned, though it looked more like a leer. "Stormagheddon."

**Enia: Yes, I know Barty Crouch Jr. is in Azkaban. But I couldn't resist putting him in here because David Tennant plays him in the movie and David Tennant is freaking awesome. He also plays the tenth Doctor in Doctor Who and is positively amazing! Forgive me for being a fan girl. Doctor Who is also where I got the whole 'Stormagheddon' thing. That was a funny episode… If you've never watched Doctor Who, I highely recommend it, and if you don't like it, you're an idiot and not worthy of the title nerd. Sorry, but it's true.**

**Please leave a review! I feel like I'm talking to air here!**


	3. The Quest

The Quest

Neville Longbottom had a quest. He knew he had to do it. It had been decreed by the Ancient Seers of Camelot. They had come to him in a dream last night, great hooded figures with long staffs clutched in their pale hands. They'd spoken to him in his head. It had scared Neville at first, but he soon came to accept it and even relish it. The Seers told him he had to travel far and over treacherous territory (at first Neville had thought they meant his backyard, but apparently that didn't cut it), to places he'd never seen before. There, he would confront the darkness and reclaim what had been taken from him.

Neville was ready. There was a bag packed and waiting on his bed, containing all the essential tools for questing. He had a teddy bear, an umbrella, some crackers, a sandwich, a flashlight, gummy bears, a rubber ball, and some band aids. Neville looked around his brightly lit room one last time before shouldering the pack and striding towards the door. But suddenly, with his hand on the knob, he paused. Neville just couldn't shake the feeling that he was forgetting something. Something important.

He turned back around, and his eyes roved over the room. What was it…? His gaze landed on a wooden stick thrown haphazardly across the bedside table. Heat filled his face as the invisible crowd in his head facepalmed. Neville scurried across the room, snatched up his want, and ran into the hallway.

Neville leaned against the closed door and let out a long breath. His quest was not off to the best of starts. But everything would go better.

Neville straightened and readjusted his pack so it lay better across his shoulders. He ran down the creaky wooden stairs, jumping the last three to land in the narrow hallway with a thud. "What are you doing out there?" a scratchy voice demanded from a room to the left.

Neville's hear jumped in his chest. "Uh, nothing Gran. I…tripped."

He could practically see his grandmother rolling her eyes. "Of course you did. Be careful."

"Yes, Gran," he promised and started walking for the front door. Gran appeared in the hallway, her arms folded across her chest, cane hanging from one wrist. Her foot tapped on the floorboards. "Where are you going?"

"Out?" Neville answered nervously.

"Where?"

"I'm just going for a walk, Gran."

"What's in the bag?"

Neville groaned inwardly; why did she always have to be so suspicious? "Just stuff."

"What sort of stuff?"

Neville swallowed anxiously. "Picnic stuff?"

"Why are you going on a picnic? It's pouring."

Neville turned and reached for the doorknob. Maybe it would be easier if he just left. He opened the door and was blown backwards by a powerful gust of wind that carried cold drops of rain with it. He quickly shut the door. Maybe it would be best if he waited for the storm to die down. Yes, that would be best. As soon as it was warm and sunny, he'd head out for real.

_You have to go now, Neville, _a feathery voice murmured in his head. Neville jumped and bumped into the wall. Gran eyed him suspiciously.

_Now is the time,_ added a second voice. It sounded exactly like the first, but somehow Neville knew that they were two different entities.

He gulped nervously. _Okay_. He pulled the door open and winced as he was assaulted by the bitter wind again. "Bye, Gran."

"Are you really going out there?"

Neville nodded.

His grandmother rolled her eyes. "You're crazy." Neville couldn't agree more. The woman sighed. "Just be careful and be home for dinner."

"Yes, Gran," Neville promised, and he set out into the storm. Instantly, he was soaked and shivering. He really wanted to go back inside, but the voices egged him on, reminding him of his quest and how terrified Trevor must be. He trudged down the rock walkway; head bowed beneath the wind that plucked at his clothes and tried to unbalance him. It seemed to take an eternity to reach the drive, and Neville was exhausted. He wasn't proving to be a very good hero. Not like Harry Potter. Maybe Neville should go to him for help…

The voices cut the thought off before it could be fully formed. This was something he had to do alone. Neville sighed dejectedly, wiped his nose, and began to walk.

* * *

Voldemort twitched in his sleep. His eyes flickered beneath their lids, absorbing the images flashing through his dream. There was a shadowy figure coming towards something shining on a tree stump, moving fast. Voldemort was what felt like miles away, and he was trying to run through quicksand. "No!" he yelled, but all that came out of his mouth was a high-pitched squeak.

The figure stopped before the golden light and reached towards it with shaking hands. The bright spot of color disappeared as the shadow closed its hands around its prize. Voldemort woke with a start, eyes wild and breath heavy.

Someone was trying to steal his precious.

**Enia: Soooo, it's been awhile. Eheheheh. I warned you about sporadic updates. The chapter was a little short. Sorry. I don't have much else to say. Just please leave a review!**


	4. Voldemort Makes Breakfast

**Enia: Now the question is…what is this chapter going to be about? I have no idea. I'm in Foundations of Journalism and I'm bored. Let's see what happens.**

**Warning: At the end of this chapter Voldemort says the F word. So if you're offended by that…well…I don't really care. I just put this warning in because I don't remember what I rated this fic. Don't come crying to me if it upsets you. You're big boys and girls; I'm sure you can handle it. Because it's not like you haven't already been exposed to swearing.**

Voldemort Cooks Breakfast

It was the morning after Voldemort's awful dream. He just couldn't believe it, though he knew it to be true. It was a prophecy; one of the most awful sort. Someone was going to take his precious from him! He couldn't allow it to happen! His precious was _his_! But the dream had been so life-like, so real. How could it not come to pass?

There was still hope, he reminded himself. He forced his hands to relax their grip on the black blankets of his bed. Prophecies could be thwarted; it had happened before. He would just have to work harder than he ever had before. The stress, the long nights, the paranoia; it would be worth it to protect his precious.

And speaking of which, in his plush, royal bed in the corner, Stormagheddon gave a croak. Instantly, Voldemort leapt into action. He shoved the blankets onto the floor, swinging his long legs out from under them. The floor was cold on his bare feet. He stood up, robe falling to cover his legs, and strode across the room to sweep Stormagheddon out of its bed. He glanced around, making sure no one was looking, then planted a kiss on the toad's head. Stormagheddon croaked in reply; Voldemort took it to be a croak of pleasure rather than one of distress.

"You must be hungry, am I right?" the Dark Lord said in a soft, cooing voice.

…

Voldemort decided the toad's silence was a yes. "Then let's get you some breakfast. I'm a great cook." No he wasn't; that's why he scared people into doing it for him. But he no longer trusted them; they might try to poison his precious.

He could make…um, well, he wasn't sure. Probably eggs and toast; anyone could make those, right?

He slid his feet into a pair of black silk slippers and nudged the door open with his shoulder, cradling Stormagheddon in the crook of his arm. Stretching, Voldemort strode down the hallway. He even managed to make his bedclothes flap dramatically. The few Death Eaters up and about stopped as soon as they saw him and stepped to the side to make way, bowing.

Voldemort ignored them. He was more concerned with finding the kitchen. His meals were always taken to his rooms or the dining hall, so he had never actually been to the kitchens. But he refused to ask for directions; he was the Dark Lord. He didn't need directions. And besides, everyone knew that real men did things by themselves.

But that didn't mean he couldn't sneak into the mind of a servant and find out. It wasn't cheating if it worked.

A young man with a covered basket appeared around the next corner. Voldemort fixed his eyes on a point a foot beyond the boy's shoulder and concentrated, sending out a tendril of thought. It slid into the unprotected mind easily. The man didn't even start. Voldemort sifted through the thoughts like a person rifling through papers. There! Right at the back; directions to the kitchen. It wasn't far from where he was.

Voldemort withdrew and quickened his step slightly. The servant cringed and shrank into himself as the Dark Lord passed. It made him smirk; scaring people gave Voldemort a tingly feeling all over.

It took him less than five minutes to find the kitchens. Then it took less than two minutes to scare all the other servants and cooks – most of them House Elves – out the door. After that, it took less than a minute for Voldemort to become completely and utterly confused.

The gleaming appliances had too many buttons and too many functions. The recipes were written in some strange garbly-gook language. There were about five million different sized pots and pans, and he didn't even _want_ to think about the actual food. It looked much different in its raw form than it did when it was served to him.

Voldemort carefully set Stormagheddon in a small bowl and then went to the giant refrigerator. Three minutes later, he finally managed to locate the carton of eggs. He placed them beside his precious and took down a pan that looked like it would do the job.

The Dark Lord picked up three eggs, held them up, and stared at them. Now what? He dropped the first one in the pan. Long cracks shot through its sides, and a strange clear liquid leaked out. Opps. Or were you supposed to crack them?

He broke the second egg with his fingers, and the slimy goo slid down his fingers, followed by a large yellow glob. He quickly dropped it into the pan, disgusted. This whole cooking this was dumb. He should just go get a servant to cook breakfast for his precious.

But no! He couldn't do that! Who _knew_ what the servant would try to do! They could try to poison his precious, god forbid! Or…or…feed him food that wasn't fit for germs! And besides, Stormagheddon was _his_ precious. Voldemort could take care of the toad himself. He didn't need help.

So he cracked the last egg and dropped it into the pan as quickly as he could, rushing to the sink to wash the slime off his hands. Returning, Voldemort whipped out his wand. He pointed it at the pan, the two broken eggs and the one still in its shell staring back at him as if saying 'what are you going to do with that?'

He flicked his wrist and the pan burst into flame. The smell of burning food quickly filled the air. Cursing, Voldmort dumped the pan in the sink and turned on the water. But, like the oil fire it wasn't, the flames only leapt higher when the water hit them. Voldemort yelled with surprise and waved his wand. The fire disappeared. Stormagheddon croaked at him. The Dark Lord smiled reassuringly at the toad. "Don't worry, Stormy. Everything's alright. The stupid eggs just won't cooperate."

He tried again, placing three more eggs in the pan. He left them whole this time; he was _not_ dealing with the goo again. He tapped each egg individually, keeping a lid on the heat his magic was releasing.

They exploded in his face.

Voldemort froze, blinking, as yellow and white egg guts dripped down his cheeks and into his eyes. Some got in his mouth, and he spit it out as quickly as he could, gagging at the taste. There was some going down his back too.

Cold rage flowed up Voldemort's spine to his heart and head, making his vision go red. His hands began to tremble, and he clenched them into fists. Whose brilliant idea was this? Cooking? What a dumb-ass idea! He flung his wand at the remaining eggs, fully intending on cooking them perfectly. Because if he couldn't do it…well…he could do everything so that wasn't a possibility.

The eggs quivered. They began to float into the air. Steam puffed off their shells in tiny streams. They rose to head level and stopped, bobbing. Voldemort's brow furrowed as he concentrated. Then, with one final, dramatic sweep of his wand, he yelled, "Cook, eggs!"

For some unknowably reason, all the eggs turned into cute, fluffy, little chicks. They tumbled to the countertops, chirping in distress. One of them fell on Voldemort's head and rolled off to land on his hand. His eye twitched.

"Fuck this shit!" Voldemort yelled, flinging the chick across the room. Luckily, due to the authoress being unable to hurt something so cute, the chick learned how to fly and was able to stop itself from hitting the wall. The cute little animal glared at Voldemort, then squeaked furiously at its siblings. Huffing, all the chicks learned to fly and left the kitchen, leaving behind special packages of poo.

Panting, Voldemort stood in the middle of the mess. He was never cooking again. Ever.

A nervous-looking servant poked her head through the door. "Is everything alright, sir?"

"Yes," Voldemort snapped. "I was just making breakfast."

"Do you…do you need some help?"

"No!" he yelled, and the girl quivered. "Now get out of here before I cook _you_ instead of these eggs!"

The girl gulped and quickly disappeared. Silence fell over the kitchen. Stormagheddon croaked questioningly. Voldemort looked over at the tiny brown toad. He sighed and shook his head. "I'm ordering Chinese."

**Enia: Yeah, there's no need to tell me that was weird. A shout out to Lily Knighte in thanks for her reviews. I got the idea for this chapter from her hilarious one shot called ****Come Dine with Me.**** You all should read it. You should also read her ****My French Twin****. Ooo Lordy, I couldn't stop laughing.**

**Anywho, hope you enjoyed. Please leave a review!**


	5. The First Challenge

The First Challenge

The time had finally come. The time for Neville to figure out if he truly was a hero. It had come to him in a vision, a blast of disjointed images as he scurried across his wet lawn with the rain lashing at his face. He had to cross something. A lake. A vast, dark, stormy lake. He was sure it would be full of vicious monsters that sought to drag him to the lake floor and eat his flesh.

He had to find a boat. In his vision, he had seen a small wooden rowboat with a single oar. It had been tied to a creaky dock and guarded by an angry troll. He had to steal it.

The lake wasn't far; Neville knew that in his bones. So he hurried down the dark road with his knapsack bumping on his back and his heart thudding in his chest. After about twenty minutes, his legs and lungs were burning and he was ready to stop, but the road split off into two branches, and he knew he was close. He took the road to the right, and it led him down towards a dark forest.

He didn't relish taking a single step in that place. _Things_ lived there. Nasty things. Evil things. Things that wanted to eat him. Neville knew it was true. It wasn't just some silly tale to scare children. He'd been chased by one once. It had been short but quick, and it had howled and brayed as it chased him through the trees.

Be strong, he snapped at himself. You have to be strong. Trevor needs you.

Neville readjusted the straps of his backpack so they lay better across his shoulders. He took a deep breath, held it for a count of five, then slowly released it through his nose. Trevor needed him.

He entered the forest, moving as quietly as he could and casting his eyes about for anything that looked like it would jump out at him. The tall trees held the lashing rain at bay, but occasionally the wind would gust and shakes the branches, making them release their payload of captured rain onto Neville's head. He hunched his shoulders and scurried on, following the squishy dirt track towards the water.

The lake appeared in the cracks between the trunks of the trees, dark gray against the soggy brown. The wind was whipping small whitecaps up on its surface. Neville caught a glimpse of the wooden dock as he rounded a curve in the path. It was creaking ominously in the storm.

He picked up the pace, wanting to get this over with as quickly as he could; trolls scared him.

The trees parted and gave way to the rocky beach. Neville hurried across the rain slicked stones as he nervously watched for any sign that the troll was about to attack him. He made it to the dock without a mishap. He set one foot on the worn planks and then the other. The wood creaked beneath his weight. The small rowboat with the single oar from his vision was waiting from him at the end of the dock, bouncing lightly in the waves.

Neville walked towards it swiftly, hands clenched around the straps of his backpack. The boat was there. So didn't that mean that the troll would be there too? So where was it?

As if in response to his thought, a cold, slimy hand wrapped around his ankle and jerked him off his feet.

Neville cried out in fear as he fell through the air and crashed face first to the dock, the rough wood scratching what felt like half the skin of his cheek off. He kicked his feet and flailed his arms, trying to dislodge his attacker and roll over onto his back. His free foot connected with something, and he heard a grunt of pain, and then his foot was free.

He scrambled away on his hands and knees, scrapping the skin of his palms. He glanced over his shoulder and felt all his hard won courage drain away.

The troll was even more ugly and terrifying than he thought it'd be. Quivering warts and bulging boils distorted its gray-green face. Its bulbous nose waggled above a gapping mouth filled with sharp black teeth. A black tongue flapped at him from inside the troll's mouth. It wore an old yellow rain slicker and matching hat, and Neville would have sworn that the front of the coat was covered with old blood. Its hands when it reached for him were simply awful. The nails were long and raggedly sharp, coated with grime, and the knuckles were covered with more of the pus filled warts that looked ready to burst.

The troll gurgled, and green slobber fell from its mouth onto the dock. Neville squeaked in terror and scrambled towards the boat, almost crying from his fear. He thought he felt one of the troll's talons touch the back of his ankle. Neville lashed out with his foot and shoved himself upright so he could run away properly.

He practically leapt off the dock and into the little rowboat, his fingers struggling to untie the knot that kept him anchored in one place. He got it undone and shoved away just as the little troll reached the end of the dock. It screeched angrily at him, but Neville let out a shaky little laugh. He'd done it. He'd gotten past a troll! He'd stolen the rowboat! Maybe he _could_ rescue Trevor!

"Sucker!" he yelled back at the beaten troll.

The little monster leapt off the dock and landed in the boat, making it rock and almost throwing Neville overboard.

**Enia: *takes a deep breath* …I have no idea what this fanfic is. I was reading it as I wrote this chapter, and it's really, really weird. I don't even know what to say about it.**

**Please leave a review!**


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